Night crept in quietly, cold and heavy, as candles were lit one by one in the tents lining the edges of the royal camp. The air smelled of smoke, tallow, and damp earth.
Jon Snow stood outside a lonely tent with Ghost at his side.
The direwolf paced in slow circles, ears pricked, yellow eyes alert as he watched every passing shadow. Anyone who approached was met with a low, warning growl.
Eddard Stark had chosen this place deliberately—far from the King's pavilion, far from laughter, wine, and celebration. No one wanted the corpse of a dead knight anywhere near the King's tent.
Without Jon's guidance, Eddard might never have found it.
Inside, the Knight of the Vale lay still upon a simple bier. The Silent Sisters had done their work well; death had smoothed the harsh angles of the young man's face. Ser Hugh of the Vale looked almost peaceful now.
Ser Ando Royce stood nearby, his expression solemn. He had never met Hugh in life, yet as a fellow man of the Vale, he felt bound to see him in death.
"I have come at a bad time," Eddard said quietly, gazing at the body of Lord Arryn's former squire.
Hugh had not been handsome. In life, his face had been rough, weathered beyond his years. In death, that roughness had softened.
Eddard stared at the boy's face and felt a familiar weight settle in his chest.
Had this boy died because of him?
Eddard had barely spoken to Hugh, had never taken the time to know him. And now, that chance was gone forever—ended by the Mountain's spear.
"There will be no more work tonight," Eddard said softly. "Everyone out."
The Silent Sisters halted at once. They had been preparing to clothe the knight in a velvet cloak, fine enough to honor his station.
"You stay," Eddard said to Ser Ando. "The rest of you may go."
"Yes, my lord," Ando replied.
Outside, Ghost grew restless, pacing and whining softly, as if he sensed death's lingering presence.
"I mourn him as well," Ando said after a moment. "He longed for honor… and instead, he met Gregor Clegane."
"He was too young," Eddard replied. "Too eager for glory."
He paused, then lowered his voice.
"But there are other matters we must speak of."
Ando stiffened. "What matters, my lord?"
"Lady Lysa," Eddard said. "And the Vale."
Eddard met the young knight's eyes.
"Before you answer, you must swear that what you tell me will go no further."
Ando did not hesitate. "You have my word, Lord Stark. My father raised me to speak truth."
Eddard nodded. "Then tell me. How fares Lady Lysa?"
Ando exhaled slowly. "Badly… or perhaps too well."
He thought for a moment, then spoke carefully.
"She does not seem touched by Lord Arryn's death. At least, not in the way one would expect."
Eddard's jaw tightened.
"Lord Robert," Ando continued, "is still a child in every sense. He cannot leave his mother's side. He is weak, frail… and still nursed as though he were an infant."
Eddard closed his eyes briefly.
"And Lady Lysa?"
"She has grown… indulgent," Ando said. "She eats, drinks, and surrounds herself with flatterers. Men eager to warm her bed and rule the Vale through her."
Anger stirred beneath Eddard's calm expression.
While he struggled in King's Landing, Lysa Arryn sat safe in the Eyrie, untouched by grief, untouched by fear.
Did she feel nothing for Jon Arryn?
Eddard knew their marriage had never been happy. Jon had been older than Lysa's father, and the union had been born of politics, not affection.
But still…
"Tell me," Eddard said quietly, "who are these men?"
Ando did not need to think long. "Great lords. Minor lords. Knights. Adventurers. They gather in the Eyrie like flies to honey."
He shook his head.
"Two are spoken of most often. Lord Hunter—older even than Lord Jon was. And Lyn Corbray, a dangerous man with a sharp sword and sharper vanity."
"There is one more," Eddard said.
Ando's expression darkened. "Petyr Baelish."
Disdain crept into his voice.
"No matter the flaws of the others, none compare to his. Many believe Lady Lysa favors him above all others."
Eddard said nothing.
"Some whisper that they shared a… relationship in their youth," Ando continued. "Lady Lysa advanced him quickly in King's Landing. A man of low birth, raised high through her influence."
"So these rumors," Eddard said, "are they truth—or poison?"
"That is hard to say," Ando admitted. "But her favor toward Littlefinger is real. As for the rest… perhaps it is simply hatred for a rival."
Eddard placed a hand on Ando's shoulder.
"You have spoken well."
As he turned to leave, the words echoed in his mind:
Lysa does not love Jon Arryn.
Lysa favors Littlefinger.
If she did not cherish her husband, could she truly be trusted?
Outside the tent, Eddard encountered Ser Barristan Selmy.
"Lord Stark," the old knight said softly. "I wished to keep vigil for the boy."
"He had no one here," Barristan continued. "Only a mother in the Vale."
"Hugh served Lord Arryn faithfully for four years," he added. "The King knighted him before we rode north."
Eddard stared at the bloodstained blue cloak embroidered with the crescent moon of the Vale.
"He should not have died," Eddard said.
"Is war a game?"
Barristan sighed. "It never is."
After a moment, he gestured toward the camp.
"The King's feast is about to begin. Will you join us?"
Eddard shook his head. "Not tonight."
As he walked away with Jon, his thoughts churned.
Lysa. Littlefinger.
Neither could be trusted.
---
On the other side of the camp, Sansa Stark felt as though she had stepped into a song.
Today had been the most dazzling day of her life.
She had watched the tourney, seen knights from stories ride beneath fluttering banners. Of them all, two figures captivated her heart.
One was Ser Loras Tyrell—the Knight of Flowers—who had given her a red rose and whispered, "Even the greatest victory is not as beautiful as you."
The other was stranger.
A short man with a pointed beard, streaks of silver in his hair, and eyes far too knowing. Someone had whispered his name—Lord Petyr Baelish, Master of Coin.
He had spoken of her mother.
"The queen of love and beauty," he had called her.
His fingers had brushed Sansa's cheek as he touched her hair.
What a strange man, she thought.
Soon, the feast began.
Six enormous oxen turned on roasting spits beside the river, basted with butter and herbs until the air was rich with scent.
Sansa sat upon a raised platform beside the King and Queen.
She had never known such splendor.
When Joffrey sat beside her, her heart leapt.
Tonight, he smiled.
He kissed her hand.
"My lady," he said smoothly, "Ser Loras has good taste."
Sansa felt as though she were floating.
Wine flowed. Music filled the air. Jugglers danced. The King's jester mocked lords and septons alike.
Then—
The King roared.
"Shut up!"
Robert Baratheon stood, drunk beyond measure.
"If I say we fight tomorrow, then we fight!"
Cersei's voice cut like ice. "You may soon be a grandfather, Your Grace."
The King's face darkened.
"Shut up!"
Tension gripped the feast.
"I am a warrior!" Robert bellowed. "No one stops me!"
He shoved Jaime aside and laughed wildly.
Jaime rose slowly, face grim.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
And Sansa watched, trembling, as the beauty of the feast cracked—revealing the violence beneath.
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